


Kill of the Night

by stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, M/M, Spooky, Tags to be added as fic progresses, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, ambiguous time period, it's about the dynamics, slow burn?, slower than usual let's say, vampire powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 02:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21008582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleplanet/pseuds/stargate-ruiner
Summary: It all starts late one cold autumn night.I mean, how cliche can you get?Between hunters, horrors, and hopeless romantics, Curt and Owen meet.And neither of their lives will ever be the same.





	1. So, what are you doing?

It wasn’t the sort of bar that Owen usually frequented. Not that Owen usually frequented bars. But he did frequent places that were open late. Really late.

He could see the moon peeking out from the wispy clouds in the night sky. An entirely too sharp crescent, curved like a scythe. No stars. Which wasn't bothering him at all. As much as he liked the idea of tracing constellations, he knew that what he was about to do tonight was best kept under cover of as much darkness as possible. Swept into the shadows. Left hidden. He felt exposed even in the flickering street lights that bore down on him with every step. The city streets were quiet now, hardly any pedestrians, which is to say, hardly any possible witnesses, but the yellowish beams that fell upon him felt like spotlights, calling all imaginary eyes of the night to look at him, watch the show he'd put on. Somehow he felt both alone and stared at. This performance, as it were, was what was in the business referred to as an 11 o'clock number. A tinge of cold ran down his spine and the only word he had to describe it was "stage fright".

Occasionally as he walked, he crushed fallen autumn leaves underfoot, red hues grinding themselves into the pavement under boots, like stomping out a fire. And when he was lucky, it was accompanied by the satisfying crunch sound, the minor victory, the encouragement that he could tread forward. It was all very Nancy Sinatra.

Eventually he reached his destination, feeling not unlike a predator stalking its prey by smell. Although the smell was no more natural musk than it was cheap booze, the sentiment remained. There was a certain art, he rationalized, to hunting. How many hunters claim they go out and bring back their trophies because they love the beasts they kill, find them beautiful? There was skill, in finding a target, choosing him from the crowd, devoting yourself, dedicating every step to him.

Trailing him. A masterful technique, and a wonderful trick, how he could follow at a distance, never losing sight, but never attracting suspicion. 

And if he did get any head-turns, there was no one any closer to the truth than assuming that Owen was following a pretty boy he saw on the street to his hangout for the night.

And so he had.

The neon open sign buzzed faintly, its blue and red hues glowing into the room, casting an eerie split of color through the otherwise dim hole in the wall. He supposed he had gotten lucky, to find the place mostly empty. A Saturday night, however late, of course, wouldn’t portend a totally deserted watering hole, but the crowd was thinner that what Owen assumed it might have been like in this place's so-called glory days. It wasn’t that a crowd bothered him, they didn’t, not even on a night like tonight. 

It was just that there were plenty of open seats at the bar. In fact, one open seat in particular, right next to the man he’d been trailing. 

He took in the image from afar, appraising him like one might appraise a work of art, or an antique for auction. 

Like a hunter might appraise a target.

Dark hair-- styled but not overdone. Like he cared, but not like he obsessed.

Pale, but not like he was vitamin D deficient. You wouldn’t notice unless you were taking in every detail like this.

Physically, he was strong, Owen could tell just by looking at him. A powerful frame, toned arms. 

A buck right on the kill plot.

A leading man right on his mark.

Perfect.

He walked over slowly, cautiously even, in contrast to his previous commanding stride, as if he was afraid he might scare the guy off. Send him running. That was the last thing Owen want to deal with tonight.

He gestured at the empty stool to the man’s right. “Is this seat taken?” 

The man shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

Owen took that as encouragement and sat down. He tried not to be so obvious in staring, but found himself unable to tear his eyes away from every microscopic action he made. Down to the tiniest details: his blinking, the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed, the brief half second in which he licked his lips. All of it worth watching, taking note of, committing to memory. He didn’t have his drink yet, but that was the bartender’s fault, as she was largely absent from the present, evidently not deeming the small crowd to be worth her while. And, Owen thought, with a shirt cut that that low she might have been hoping for some… attention. And at least in his case, she would be barking up the wrong tree. 

Eventually she did make her war over, with an almost cliche “What can I get ya?”

The man next to him spoke up first. “Bloody Mary.”

Owen almost snorted. Ironic. 

He let out a small huff through his nose and caught the man shooting him a glance that was painted over with a thin layer of confusion. 

The woman turned to him then, expectantly. 

He ordered a gin and tonic, and in the instant he’d gotten the last syllable out, she’d already turned her back again, disappearing to God only knows where.

He assumed the drinks would be a while.

Plenty of time to make conversation. 

“I like your jacket.” 

(A lie.)

(It was a tacky black leather thing… red racing stripes.)

(But he didn't have to know the truth. In general, it would be better if he didn't.)

He shot Owen another look, one of confusion yet again, but Owen hoped he wasn't mistaken when he detected a bit of intrigue in it as well.

"Thanks." he said simply, before craning his neck as if to see if there was any progress on the drinks.

The one word reply was less far from the response he was hoping for, and Owen decided to take things a step further. "Tell me," he started, voice low and even, "what is a man like you doing in a place like this?"

That earned a laugh from the man, and Owen watched as a smirk spread on hips as he side-eyed him. "You know, I could ask you the same thing."

"Why, don't I look like I belong?" 

“Not your look,” the man remarked, with a slightly quirked brow and cavalier point. “your voice. Your accent.”

Owen blinked, his facade cracking for a moment. “Oh.” he let out a light laugh. “I forget sometimes. To me, I sound normal, and you all have accents.”

“Is that right?” he squinted at Owen slightly.

“Mhmm.” Owen replied, voice coming out higher than intended. He suspected his target would be able to pick up on the nervousness, so quickly tried to cover it by blurting a non sequitur. “By the way, what’s your name?”

The man blinked in surprise at the sudden topic change, but eased back into place soon enough with grace. “Curt.” he said simply, glancing up once more to see if there was any movement behind the bar.

Owen ran the name over in his head. Short. Straight to it. 

“It’s nice.” he said, and meant it. “It suits you.”

The man, Curt, let out a light laugh, and let a whispered “thanks” escape his lips. Owen could’ve imagined him blushing, but was near certain that he wasn’t. No harm in imagining, though. 

“So tell me, Curt,” he made pointed use of his name, “regarding the accent. Why mention it?”

He shrugged. “Just noticed it.” he made a rolling gesture with his wrist as he talked. “It’s unusual.” 

“And is 'unusual' bad?” Owen asked, an air of teasing to his voice, “or are you the sort of person who… appreciates the unusual?” He reached out a hand and trailed a single finger down Curt’s arm, as if making reference to the jacket, but silently took note of how he didn’t shy away from the touch.

Curt opened his mouth as if to speak, before shutting it again as his eyes widened in realization. His lips curled into a smile, smug and sinister. “Oh, I get it.”

“What?” Owen drew back his hand in an instant. 

“This isn’t about the accent. You’re trying to figure out if I swing your way.” 

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

Curt nodded. “You are.” 

“Well, if I am, would I--” Owen sputtered, not anticipating being called out on his game, “_Do_ you?” 

Curt let out a genuine barking laugh at that, which shook through his whole body. “Wow.” he grinned wolfishly. “You know what? You’re lucky. You’re really, really lucky.” 

Before Owen could get a word in edgewise, Curt kept talking. “You wanna take this outside?” 

"We didn’t get our drinks.” he countered.

Curt smirked once more. “Is that _really _what you came here for?”

Owen glanced around the bar, eyes scanning for the few patrons, all of whom were minding their own business, but none of whom deserved to see what was certain to happen.

“Yeah, let’s… let’s go.” he settled on, permitting a smile of his own to become visible.

Curt stood and Owen followed, sliding back into that role again, of trailing him.

They moved towards the back exit, which Owen knew from canvassing the place nights before lead to a back-alley.

Just once, Curt whipped his head around to speak. “It’s cute.”

Owen balked, looking at him questioningly.

“Your accent.” Curt clarified. “You asked me what I think of it. I think it’s cute.” 

Owen felt his face heat up, and dammit he shouldn’t get attached, but it would just be so easy, maybe to enjoy the night, just for a little. But no. No. Any indulgence he allowed himself would only make everything harder, he reminded himself. All he had to do was finish the job, make it quick, and walk away. 

He hoped that when he stepped out of the door, the cold autumn air would snap him back to his senses. 

Curt held the door for him, ushering him out with a sweeping arm motion like a proper gentleman.

But once they were both outside, cloaked in the natural darkness of evening, Curt moved almost like a skittish wild animal, taking the initiative to put several steps between them. 

“What?” Owen tried to joke, but there was hardly any humor in it, “Are you running away?” 

He caught the look in Curt’s eyes, something he could almost call “recognition”, and wondered if he’d been a similar situation before. He probably had. Probably several times.

Something about his eyes seemed almost to shift. They were hazel in color but in the moonlight, he could have sworn there were flecks of gold in them. But-- dammit. He had to focus himself. 

Curt let out a laugh, a shaky anxious sound, that Owen couldn’t deny sounded almost melodic. Which meant he was getting clouded. He knew the signs.

“I didn’t, ha, didn’t catch your name earlier.” 

Owen grinned, getting his bearings, and trying to regain control of the situation. “I didn’t give it.”

“Well would you?” Curt shot back indignantly. 

“I know what you’re trying to--” Owen started before being cut off by Curt.

“I’m not _trying _to do anything. You’re a man I just met. A stranger. So I’m just asking your name.” 

There was a pause, in which a tense silence hung in the air, carefully like an icicle off a ledge. It shattered against Curt’s conversational sledgehammer, turning the question into a command.

After just a beat, Curt spoke, voice low and demanding. “Tell me your name.”

“Owen.” he blurted, without thinking, suddenly compelled. 

He wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly what happened. Silently, he cursed himself for giving in so easily.

_ “Owen.” _ Curt parroted, as if trying out the name on his tongue. His lips curled into a smile, as he was seemingly satisfied. “You know, _Owen, _they say a person’s favorite word in the English language is their own name. Is that true for you, _Owen? _ No offense, but you strike me as a bit of a narcissist, _Owen.” _The curl of lips came to more closely resemble a sneer, almost a snarl, as he popped the “O” every time he repeated the name with pointed emphasis. He punctuated it each time with stepping closer. 

Owen knew he didn’t have to; he could have just beckoned him over and he’d come like a dog.

No, that wasn’t-- wait. No… 

He shook his head quickly as if the action could clear his mind. He felt his clarity returning, and knew in that instant that he had to act, in that exact moment, or he’d never act at all. 

He could see Curt’s smile up close now, close enough to see his fangs, knife-sharp canines that caught the light in the most intriguing way. Exactly as he'd expected them to be, yet somehow more intimidating up close, as Curt practically growled at him. He'd anticipated them all night, of course, wouldn't have tracked Curt down if he hadn't, but in all the time he'd spent using his charm on him that night, he hadn't got so much as a glimpse before now. He used to think that someday he’d dedicate himself solely to the study, and discover how these little affectations of vampires seem to disappear, or at least go unnoticed, when convenient. His new friend here was certainly skilled at distraction. But study had always bored him, and nothing brought justice like a hunt. 

He could see Curt’s shit eating grin, the grin of someone who’d already won, and couldn’t help but think only of his desire to wipe it off of his face.

In one swift motion, he drew his wooden stake from where it was holstered on his left hip and lunged. 

“Fuck!” Curt shouted, as his back hit the wall roughly, his body colliding with the bricks. 

Owen had escalated things, but had needed to, knowing full well that this song and dance had gone on too long already. He raised the stake, prepared to thrust it forward into his chest. He was putting an end to it there and then, ending on a high note. He had him as close to cornered as he was going to get. In fact, for a second when Curt looked up at him, he looked downright helpless. Pure fear in his eyes. 

Owen hesitated. 

And that was all it took.

“Drop your weapon.” Curt said softly. 

Owen, despite himself, felt his hand shake. 

Curt made his voice sound even more pleading, more gentle, as he spoke again, eyes still wide and staring at the imminent threat. “Come on, Owen, please. Drop your weapon.” 

Owen tried to fight it, really he did. But something in the way Curt spoke made it too damn hard to resist and after moment of struggled, his fingers abruptly lost their grip, and the stake fell to the pavement with a loud clatter and some splintering.

“There we go.” Curt said, as if to rub salt in the wound. “Good boy.” 

It was a work of hypnosis, what he had done to him, something some vampires were particularly adept at. Curt was better at than he had anticipated, and that was the whole problem. His eyes, his voice, all of it too powerful, too overwhelming. There was something alluring about him, enticing, that made him want more. A predator going off the trail. Letting his prey lead him into the dark part of the forest. Anything could happen there. He hadn't counted on the feeling being so strong. He dropped his hand back to his side almost sheepishly and ducked his head, the only act of rebellion he knew he could allow himself in the moment. He knew he didn't have the resilience left to fight, and certainly didn't have the humility to turn and run away.

Curt tsked. "Look at me."

Owen shook his head. It made him feel like a petulant child, his passive disagreement. He hadn't come armed nearly as much as he should have, but he was just planning on getting Curt close and striking quickly. Now he was the one caught. Ensnared. 

Curt laughed, and Owen felt his face heat up again, this time with embarrassment.

"Look at me, Owen." He repeated.

Slowly, Owen gave into the command, bringing his head back up to meet Curt's eyes, getting once again lost and feeling Curt's power at full intensity. As if instinctively, he arched his neck up slightly, sparing a glance at Curt's fangs once more. He hoped, at least, that he would make it quick. 

He saw an expression enter Curt’s face-- a furrowed, lowered brow paired with a frown. It looked a little like shame. It looked a _lot _like pity.

He felt Curt scrutinizing him, eyes gazing over every aspect of his face. His tired eyes, dark circles. His half-scared, half-numb expression. The barest hint of defiance in how his lips curled. 

Curt’s expression softened, and he brought a hand up to cup Owen’s cheek. He shivered, and would have recoiled at the touch, had he possessed the strength to move. 

“Owen…” he started, coaxingly, drawing impossibly more of Owen’s attention in. “Go home.” He glanced back down at Owen’s dark circles briefly “Get some sleep.” He gave a small smile, one that was almost comforting, and slightly sad. “And don’t look for me again.”

Owen nodded, because what else could he do but nod?

And Curt, in return, patted his cheek, with an air of both condescension and care.

With that Owen stepped back, paused for a moment, and turning to walk off, almost robotically. The rest of the evening passed in a dark foggy haze.

The next morning, Owen woke with a start, jolting upright in bed.

_ “Shit!” _

Back rigid, his hand immediately flew to his neck to assess the damage. Frankly, he was surprised to still be breathing. 

As his palm touched down, he felt only smooth skin, unmarred flesh. Frantically, he searched around by touch, desperately trying to feel, to break past whatever delusion he was stuck in. But no, the truth was the truth, and he had to face it.

He hadn’t been bitten.

Curt hadn’t bitten him.

He let him go.

_ Why would he-- _

He let out a sigh of relief and in the same instant, pinched the bridge of his nose in confusion. Overwhelmed.

The only way to understand what happened would be to seek Curt out again, ask, hell, _interrogate _him, about what game he thought he was playing.

_ He could have-- _

_ It would have been easy-- _

But that was now an impossible task, as Owen found his every instinct, down to his very core, screaming at him not to look for Curt again.

Exasperatedly, in a moment of dramatics that was downright Byronesque, he flopped back down onto his pillows.

He spread his limbs out, and let himself fall backwards, splayed, staring at the ceiling and trying to think of a solution.

He let out an annoyed sound when nothing came immediately to mind.

And then, of his own volition, he followed Curt’s advice a little further, and got just a little more sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Curt eventually stalked home on his own that night, he was hungry. Extremely hungry. Lord, has this incident affected his appetite. He was hungry and pissed and slightly sad and didn’t have the words for why. He slammed the door to his own apartment and summoned the willpower to send himself straight to sleep without getting anything fresh in his system. Almost as if in punishment. Even if, he thought to himself, he was completely in the right.

By the time he next woke, he was desperate, and his head was pounding. It was a feeling not dissimilar to a hangover. He stumbled out of bed and into his kitchen, haphazardly flinging open in his fridge with still bleary eyes. There was a distinct voracity with which he tore into the bag of B negative. Under any other circumstance he would have been more careful about this. After all, it was a waste to let so much spill over his face, and more than an indignity to feel like a wild animal ripping into a scavenged carcass. But with a uniquely singular focus, he had already shredded the plastic with his desperate fangs and let more than too much of it dribble down his chin before his mind was unclouded enough to do something reasonable like rummage through the nearest cabinet and grab the first vaguely bowl or cup shaped object and get it in a position for catching the excess. He should have poured it into something to start with, of course, and by the time he was calm enough to feel embarrassed, his face was reddened two ways, deepening with a sense of shame that he couldn’t even wait a few fucking seconds. 

He glanced down to see that the dish he’d procured was in fact a wine glass. Despite his initial fervor, what he’d manage to collect in the glass (not counting what had missed the glass and was going to be an utter bitch to clean off of his marble countertops) had filled somewhere around the bottom fourth of the glass. Not a bad pour for something like, say, Cabernet, especially for the sake of aromatics. But taking a whiff made him grimace. There was no distinct scent to this stuff; there never was. Just copper and plastic. He suppressed the disgusted curl of his lip, while he swirled the glass around. In a casual setting, the visual could have fooled anyone, save for the way the blood clung to the side of the glass in the way wine didn’t. He shrugged and downed the rest like a shot. 

He wiped at his mouth then, cringing when his hand came away red, shuddering to think of how absolutely debased he must look. And he probably ruined his shirt too. And his jacket. Dammit, he slept in his jacket again. So restrictive on the arms that thing. But-- good for getting attention. He’d give himself at least that: the opportunity for attention, even if he’d never actually take it. Sometimes he’d pretend he would, drift off into some fantasy where he takes exactly what he wants from anyone who catches his eye in that way. But he never goes through with it. 

Last night was the closest he’d come to that in ages, and it wasn’t even by choice. Damn hunters think they’re so smart. But they never take no for an answer. That had been a bar full of people. Good people, innocent people. Well, probably less than innocent, but certainly not deserving of witnessing what would look to them like a very strange murder. So he’d taken the initiative to at least get them outside, in private. 

He hadn’t even gotten his drink, which was the whole point of going there. Last night was supposed to just have been a treat. A little extra to tide him over. But the unexpected events had woken up a hunger in him that he saw no way to sate except for the obvious. 

And now his already dwindling supply was down even more, the shelves in his fridge looking sad and near-barren. Which meant he’d have to get more soon. Which was just… such a burden. It beat grocery shopping, fair enough, but god, the embarrassment and tedium of it all. Managing through these parts had never been his forte. 

He could have drank from the hunter-- Owen-- and that would have been, _ alright he’s no anatomy expert _ , but, somewhere around ten or more times the amount from that one shitty bag. (And in his least favorite flavor too-- this is what he’s been reduced to.) But he’d made his own long winded list of reasons why of course he couldn’t do that. It would have been a nightmare to leave a corpse in some random alley. There’s no telling how good the blood would be-- he could have some-- disease or something or-- have recently eaten Italian or-- well, the hunter was an idiot and stupid blood can’t taste good, right? It’d be like junk food: all calories no nutrition. But, as much as he tried to escape it, the explanation stared him in the face with how simple it was. He didn’t want to. He just didn’t want to. And honestly, did he need more explanation than that? So he let Owen go, so what? He couldn’t even look for him now. God, Owen went under his thrall so easily it was almost funny. He hadn’t expected that old name trick to work. Hey, maybe that Owen guy wasn’t as much of a narcissist as he was a-- _ no _ , he mentally chastised himself, be polite. The guy was cute. So nervous that Curt would have believed him if he’d said this was his first hunt. Of course, he wasn’t saying much of anything aside from the most awkward flirting he’d heard in a long time. He’d known he was a hunter from the very start. Instinct, he supposed. He could practically smell it on him. ...He hoped he couldn’t actually smell it on him. Hearing people’s heartbeats was one thing but if it turned out that he could sniff people like a police dog-- no, no absolutely not. He wouldn't even entertain the thought. He couldn’t be more of a beast, not now, not after almost dying like one, backed into a corner like a rabbit, genuine fear in his eyes as he’d looked up the hunter. If his heart could beat it would have been pounding dizzyingly, drowning out the rest of the world. _ Ooh, big scary hunter, poor little vampire. _ He huffed to himself. _ Yeah, right. _ He’d faced worse before, but somehow this one stung with a new ache, and not just the one in his shoulder that should have healed by now. He supposed that he hoped Owen would be different. A stupid, stupid way to get his hopes up. Idiotic. But maybe he could have kept his focus on Owen’s long chocolate colored hair, or his mocha eyes, or his ice cream sprinkle freckles across the bridge of his nose. Could have hummed along to him drumming his fingers on the counter while he waited for a bartender that wasn’t coming back. Could’ve thought about his sugary laugh or his pomegranate blush, and not the weapon on his hip that he just let hang there like it was nothing. That kept quietly thudding against the bar stool and he expected Curt not to notice. That he could flirt and sweet talk and make moon-eyes at him and all the while have no plans but to kill him. Usually they’re so direct about it, but Owen just had to lead him on, didn’t he? Had to twist the knife, make him want something he’d never get and for what? One cheap kill he couldn’t even go through with. Fuck him. 

Curt sighed out loud.

He trudged to the bathroom to get himself clean. Physically, at least. Some parts of him were going to stay as stained as his shirt for as long as he was still kicking. On the way through the hall he mentally cursed out Owen. Hunters, all the same. No patience. If he had just waited, played the long con, maybe they could’ve gone steady for a week or two before one of them had to try to kill the other. But no, spending a finite amount of time with some pretty British boy was too much to ask. Clearly. He huffed and entered the bathroom, making a beeline for the mirror. 

God, he looked awful, the whole area around his mouth was stained red and smeared. Evidently, he had no self control left, blew it all on that damn hunter. Could’ve taken him home, he knew, taken him home and done fucking whatever he wanted to him. But no, he was a good little vampire. A good vampire, and a good person, and he took pity on the poor fucking hunter with the tired eyes and cute accent and fuck it, fuck everything. He gripped the sides of the sink and looked into his own eyes. The irises were still reflecting that ugly yellow-ish sort of way they could that made him look even less human, and he almost growled like a zoo animal at his own reflection. He was furious and he didn’t know if it was more at the hunter or himself. The hunter. Wouldn’t even dignify him with a name. It was a good thing he couldn’t come after him. He never wanted to see that asshole again. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Who did he-- why did he-- have to-- ruin it-- could have both pretended to be normal… He bared his bloodied fangs in the mirror. And then suddenly fed up with his self-pity session, he grabbed a nearby washcloth and ran it under the too-hot tap before scrubbing at his face with more intensity than necessary. When he’d successfully scraped himself raw and cleared all the blood, he dropped the rag unceremoniously and panting. 

He could have died last night. Sober. 

Yeah... fuck that hunter. 

Across town, Owen Carvour woke up for the second time that morning by lazily fading out of sleep and stretching his arms. Languidly, he rose like liquid congealing, blinking away the last remnants of sleep that threatened to beckon his eyes shut once more. He yawned blearily, before his eyes snapped open as he remembered exactly what had happened that past night. He was that close to a vampire and vulnerable, and still, he hadn't been bitten, drained, killed, turned-- nothing! He wondered half jokingly if maybe his blood tasted bad. But as soon as he’d thought it, it didn’t feel funny anymore. 

He groaned, running a hand down his face. Mentally, he ran through the list of commands he’d been given by Curt. 

Go home - done.

Get some sleep - done.

Don’t look for him again - Well…

He felt like he should at least try. 

He got out of bed and moved to the desk in his room, sitting down and then beginning to flip through his various photos. He wasn’t a stalker. Not really. Perhaps the ethics might not have been Mother Teresa level of morality, but it was necessary! So maybe grainy, blurry photographs, hardly spotlights and headshots for his leading man weren’t quite a basis for a healthy meeting. And he supposed that the security camera footage he’d begged and bargained and bribed and stole for weren’t quite a perfect audition reel. 

But it was for the job. Not because he wanted to. Not because he was obsessed. He wasn’t. He _ wasn’t. _

He looked through them again… scenes he’d become plenty familiar with by now: dive bars, street crossings, little places in shadows, nighttime haunts. Standard scenery, with one one beautiful shadowed figure standing out in them all. He could trace out a fantasy in them, string together a storyboard of events, come close enough at times to even get what resembled a walk cycle. He’d half-expected him to move more animalistically, to slink around his various hangouts. But he blended into the crowd all too well, the creature of the night, so much so that if you weren’t looking for him, you’d never notice him. But he was, of course, looking for him. His mind wandered to those damn gorgeous golden eyes that’d gotten him into a trance-like state. Could’ve belonged to an angel if they didn’t belong to a monster. But that was all part of the trick of it. Looking beautiful, seeming beautiful. It was all fake, a distorted reflection like a mirage in the desert. It showed you what you wanted to see. Didn’t make it real. 

Abruptly, he stood from the chair as if to leave, to go linger around various places, to seek his mark out, to dig like dirty, sinful hands through a grave and unearth whatever god-forsaken cave or coffin he’d crawled into to hide. 

He took a single step, and then it started. 

The ringing like screaming from the start of that morning had mellowed out into a sort of low hum. 

He’d expected it to feel like chains or rope-- an intense sensation of dragging him back, holding him in place. Digging into his skin and burning, coiling tighter, forcing him back like the whip of a lion tamer while the crowd jeered. 

It wasn’t like that at all. 

It was gentler, like a whisper, a loving suggestion. Not like being pulled by force, but like hands sweetly holding him, like being arm in arm with someone, like an adoring audience pleading for just once more encore, and one more after that one … it was seductive, for lack of a better word, and it burned in his bloodstream like the first breath off a cigarette.

He hated how much he wanted to give in. He hated how easily he was willing to submit to it, give himself over to request being made of him. And he did.

He took a step backwards. Took a deep sigh. Closed his eyes. Swore. 

And resolved himself that at least for now, he couldn’t look for Curt. 

He made plans instead to go about the morning as usual, if nothing had happened at all last night. To think about it at most, and ignore parts of it at least, get some damn caffeine in him finally. 

With a new purpose, he took another step. 

He winced as if expecting that feeling of longing and desire to return. 

It didn’t.

He walked to the bathroom. 

He looked in the mirror to see his air still disheveled in an awful bird’s nest. Pieces sticking out and hanging in his face and still partially crimped from where it’d been tied. He _ did _look tired. He felt like his whole self had dripped out of him, melting in the light of day and spiraling down the drain of his sink with his toothpaste spit. He couldn’t help but let his mind drift to Curt’s beautiful canines, those icicles of fangs, surely as cold as he was. As cold as empty veins and his cruel hands and his iced over heart. And still… he’d let him go. Was that some warmth? Some sense of melting? Owen felt that he himself had melted. He felt like he would have seeped right into the dirty puddles of the alleyway in that moment. Given a singular desire the same as his stake in terms of where he so desperately wanted to be. He shouldn’t be thinking about Curt’s heart, he reminded himself. It doesn’t even beat. 

As if not suffering through enough darkness, he made his way downstairs for a coffee, needing some way to keep himself awake. His instincts had evidently latched on to the vagueness of “get some sleep” and was ready to fall back into bed at any moment. 

He took his coffee black today. He flirted vaguely with the thought of adding cream and sugar, but he decided that he had no interest in making himself sweeter. 

He couldn’t go on like this. Twitching in his fingers like a junkie trying to get his fix of the man he’d come here to kill. He’d felt himself give more and more into Curt’s commands, even before he’d ever noticed Curt was starting them. He couldn’t help but remember arching his neck up, assuming that death was the more dignified option of any that were immediately apparent. He certainly would’ve made a name for himself then. _ Owen Carvour: the hunter who thought he’d make it big in America and got killed on his first hunt there and was left in an alleyway for the cats to find. _

But Curt had spared him. Mercy, though it seemed, could have been some deeper instinct no one had recorded yet. There truly was something majestic about Curt, something… human. And-- ah-- he caught himself, no, thinking like that was going to get him killed. It was remnants of the thrall, and if it wasn’t, even worse. To be weak like that, to want to be wanted that badly, to feel sympathetic. He could feel sympathetic enough to walk right into the time when Curt’s hunger was winning over his morality and let his blood spill like wine for the chance at a feeling he was trying to chase without even understanding. 

It would be hard to kill Curt, and that was putting it bluntly. He considered that he might mourn. And wouldn’t that be quite the sight, all in black and veiled, weeping over the trophy from his own hunt. Sobbing about what could have been and never would be-- over someone who’d never think the same way. It might just be the connection severing. It might be the idea of the betrayal, to not give him one chance, just one as he’d given him. 

The golden rule for his golden eyed divine beast.

But he was enraged that he’d been broken down at all, and now carried that in his heart even still. 

The line between revenge and repentance was looking entirely too blurry. 

He supposed it didn’t matter, as he took a swig from his coffee and grimaced at the bitterness of it, it didn’t matter at all. 

After all, he couldn’t even go after Curt. 

For the time being, the golden treasure could stay buried.


End file.
